


Body Talk

by Vituperative_cupcakes



Category: Fargo (2014)
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-15
Updated: 2014-05-15
Packaged: 2018-01-24 21:07:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1617104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vituperative_cupcakes/pseuds/Vituperative_cupcakes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mr. Wrench likes to watch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Body Talk

**Author's Note:**

> At this point they may as well play "the Ambiguously Gay Duo" theme any time these two come onscreen, I swear.

The motel room they had been afforded was cheap(as if anything better existed in this town) and seemed to be under the impression they only slept one man at a time. So currently, Mr. Numbers was reclining on the single rail-skinny twin mattress with his hands laced behind his head, eyes shut, as Mr. Wrench suffered silently in the single chair in the room. The thing was upholstered in ultra-mustard plaid and gave only the illusion of padding, plopping down in one of these would probably lead to a tailbone injury.

Mr. Numbers was no more comfortable on the bed. The stuffing had been worn over generations of clients into a series of hollows only a contortionist with rickets would feel comfortable in. The reclining was mostly for show. Even though his eyes were closed, Mr. Numbers could still feel his companion's eyes on him.

Without opening his eyes, Mr. Numbers signed, _are you still looking at me?_

There was a rustle of fabric and a creak of wood. Mr. Numbers guessed that Wrench had risen, but resolutely refused to open his eyes.

Moments passed with only the sound of Mr. Wrench's breathing and the hiss of distant traffic punctuating the gloom. Finally Mr. Numbers opened his eyes.

Mr. Wrench was watching him with that sullen, simmering-over look that he affected when they were alone sometimes. He had his arms crossed, which, coupled with his ridiculous fringe jacket, was a semi-comedic gesture.

Mr. Wrench signed,  _I like to watch you._

Almost involuntarily, Mr. Number's gaze dipped downward. Ah, yes. That he did.

“So whaddya want me to do?” he asked. “You know I hate being looked at all the time.”

Mr. Wrench didn't answer, just gave an appraising sweep of his body sprawled out on the mattress. Up and down, and then up again.

“What do you want?”

Mr. Wrench made clear eye contact and attempted a gesture not seen in any ASL guide.

Mr. Number's jaw literally dropped. “Are you kidding me?”

Mr. Wrench repeated the gesture, slowly, moving his hands like he was caressing the air. Mr. Numbers laughed, but it was weak. He could feel the arousal creeping up on him despite the cold.

_You're a freak_ , he signed.

_You're my bitch_ , Wrench signed back.

Numbers let another nervous titter escape. “I can't take it seriously when you talk dirty, man.”

Mr. Wrench repeated his gesture, indicating the finality with the abruptness of his movements. Mr. Numbers held up his hands.

“Okay,” he laughed, “okay man, but if you freakin' touch me—”

Mr. Wrench signed,  _do it._

Mr. Numbers slid down in the bed until he was laid out completely horizontally flat in on the mattress. He licked his lips, maintaining eye contact with Mr. Wrench as he unbuttoned his fly. The air was cold, and he shrank slightly as he extracted himself from his jeans. Mr. Wrench bit his lip to smother a laugh. Mr. Numbers threw a balled up sock at him.

“Shut _up_.”

Mr. Wrench made a zipping motion on his mouth. Mr. Numbers nodded and got back to business.

Warming things up took considerably longer in this room. Not just due to the air, which would have refrigerated butter, but the eye-popping décor. He tried closing his eyes and thinking pornographic thoughts, imagining it was Mr. Wrench's hands instead of his own. As much as he hated to admit it, Wrench was good with his hands.

He ran a thumb from the base to the tip, experimentally, brushing the head lightly with the pad once, twice. He heard a quick intake of breath and contained a shiver. Wrench's enthusiasm was contagious.

It was easier, now. He knew how to put on a good performance, letting the want show on his face, teasing the shaft with his fingers more for his partner's pleasure than his own. Truth be told, when Mr. Numbers jacked off he did it as quickly as possible, a holdover from his teenage years spent in a house with only one bathroom.

Finally, he gripped the shaft with one hand, pumping it with infuriating slowness. They hadn't had sex since starting this job, and it hadn't hit him how starved they had both been until now. He made little needy noises in his throat without meaning to and worked his hips along with his cock, imagining Mr. Wrench's mouth and hands on him, tight and wet and so, so hot. Right about now Mr. Wrench would be working him with one hand while the other explored, rolling his balls, teasing his rear entrance. Mr. Numbers took that as a cue and used his free hands to grip his balls, stroking down the middle and then squeezing the two gently together.

Another intake of breath. He was doing well.

Mr. Numbers bit his lip. Damn if this mutual jerk-off session wasn't just making him want more. It might be all hot for the voyeur, but Mr. Numbers was a doer, not a looker. He needed sex to be hard and fast and intense, like their last fuck session in an airport bathroom.

The sudden memory made his cock kick into overdrive. Mr. Numbers hissed a breath over a bitten lip.

Crammed together in a stall, trying to find the configuration of bodies that left the least charlie horses, Mr. Wrench pounding away at his prostate, one hand over his mouth, the other on his cock, the white-hot friction, the tension, like a wire that glowed bright with heat and suddenly snapped—

Mr. Numbers bit back a shout as he ejaculated, gasping in short, sharp shocks. He took a moment trying to swim back to reality, wetting his lips with a lazy tongue, sprawled out bonelessly on sheets that hadn't been changed since the Reagan administration.

He peeked beneath one lid at his partner. “—aw, come on,  _seriously_ ?!”

Mr. Wrench smiled, bulge still very evident in his jeans, hands in his pockets.

“What the fu—” Mr. Numbers slapped the mattress with both palms. “I swear to god, man.”

Mr. Wrench made a  _turn over_ twirl with his fingers. Mr. Numbers flipped him the bird.

“You're gonna drive me nuts, man,” he said as he complied, “before this thing is over, you’re gonna drive me nuts.”

Mr. Wrench put a finger to his lips. And that was that.

 

 


End file.
